


Artist

by WhenIFindLoveAgain



Category: Original Work
Genre: British Culture, Character Study, Comedy, Diary, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Journal, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Secret Crush, Slow Dancing, Slow Romance, Wales, column, pub-dancing, welsh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIFindLoveAgain/pseuds/WhenIFindLoveAgain
Summary: A romantic comedy column about off apricots, why having European models can be a menace, the power a woman wields in tight jeans, how I love being an artist, and how the absolutely crush of my life - though she doesn't know it - made my world
Kudos: 1





	Artist

I love being an artist.

  
I wouldn't do anything else on earth.

  
Coloured film screens and capturing the "all" of a human being through a camera lens; I love cinematography. I love the creation, and the adaption, and the viscerality that comes with it. If my confessions and stories and novels and creations can't get published, I film them instead; more people come to know of it and it fascinates them. Why bother to read when you can watch a film, seems to be the collective thought amongst most people.

  
If only I could get that boy I write about all the time, or that woman I write about all the time, or the boy with the oat-meal coloured hair and the green eyes that nearly hit my Grandmother and I and our picnic in the botanical gardens with a football, or perhaps even the Pole Stephan to sit down in front of a camera.

  
Perhaps not Stephan. The one thing that we agree on is that his Mother is a pixie, and his Sister is an arsehole.

  
I sigh across the room to the fireplace. I've got a deep cut on my right shoulder-blade from a freak accident in the barn the other day. I can feel it when I move or when I lean back into a armchair.

  
I noticed had apricot juice stained sticky and orange in colour on my arm. My Grandmother had come around to my studios with four of them. I bit into one, and it disintegrated in my hand, like jam. Apricot juice splattered down over the white screen and the floor like the stabbing into a person's skin; it smeared over my arms and chest and stomach and at the lightest push of my thumb a segment covered seed burst out of it onto the floor.

  
Suddenly I was desperate for sex with the boy that I write about all the time; I'm not sure if he even knows I exist or not. Even though I walked past him a few times - small town in the mountains - it doesn't mean he actually saw me. Most human beings don't observe anything; and just because he's more beautiful than most of them, it doesn't mean that he doesn't share qualities with them.

  
The woman I write about all the time...she was absolutely fascinated by a piece I wrote which became the name of my blog.

  
"The Art Of Too-Timing You."

  
The trouble with having hits on your blog is that you can't see who actually clicked. But in turn when she posted something on her blog, she made mention of it. She had taken some photos of books she was reading. She's a fierce Labour-party Anti-Brexit supporter and activist, and when Boris Johnson and his Conservative Government was re-elected, she had to take up self-counselling by getting lots of modern romance novels and healing/mental well-being books.

  
I burst into tears of delirious euphoria of how she said it was "astounding" and "wonderfully funny" and "decietfully honest and aesthetic of what is to be young, naughty, chaotic, quirky, alternative and cantankerous in normal British culture".

  
I was simply so high. I did the chumba-wumba around my studio. 

  
The chumba-wumba is British pub-dancing. Sometimes it gets done at the football and at a wedding. Sometimes at a funeral.

  
Sometimes in your arsehole neighbour's front garden.

  
I don't really know if you could say that there is any point or any great moral philosophy to this text. The latter, there definitely isn't any of, I'm sure.

  
As for the boy I write about all the time, I keep think about his mouth and eyes and hair and crotch.

  
....yep.

  
I think I just decided to write shit for the sake of it.

  
No, I was writing about my love of being an artist, right?

  
Well, that sums that up, then.


End file.
